


Between

by mresundance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath, Death, Gen, M/M, Metaphysics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em> Rather, he makes the choice with what remains of himself – his spirit, his soul – some vague, incorporeal awareness which dwells between two worlds. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Between

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31521879#t31521879) at the Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme: _John is stuck in two worlds, one where the relives 'TGG' over and over again, and the other where it's set months after, and Sherlock is dead. He has to chose what world to live in._
> 
> Beta'ed by Kalyso at dreamwidth. All other errors are mine.

It’s a choice John makes with his heart rather than his mind. Not his literal heart or his literal mind; both are gone, blown to embers and ash by the explosion at the pool. Rather, he makes the choice with what remains of himself – his spirit, his soul – some vague, incorporeal awareness which dwells between two worlds.

In one, John’s heart – or the memory of his real, flesh heart – squeezes so hard, until John aches and becomes dizzy. The pool is the same colour as Sherlock’s eyes and John keeps feeling himself tumble into both, though he knows he didn’t.

In the other world, outside, the leaves are falling from the trees and the sunlight is drained and grey. It’s cold and quiet in 221b and John’s leg aches.

‘Sherlock,’ John keeps calling, the memory of real air gusting over his lips. Sherlock’s name echoes in the flat, then dies.

These two worlds twist and pull at John and he begins, after some time – it could have been seconds on the cosmic scale, or years, or centuries, or longer – to feel himself unravel. The pool is the same colour as Sherlock’s eyes and John calls for him, but the water swallows the words. John rotates, watching the leaves drift golden on the surface of the pool. Sherlock turns in the water too, and smiles at John.

‘It’s going to be alright,’ he says. These are not words Sherlock would have said in life, but John feels them inside him now, glowing like stars. The words are true enough even if they are not real.

‘I know,’ John replies and his own voice is ghostly. In the water’s gloom he reaches for one of Sherlock’s pale hands and squeezes.

He makes the choice then, with all that is left of him. The world of dead leaves and drained sunlight and aching legs and Sherlock’s empty name blows away and John is himself again. The pool and Sherlock’s eyes are the same painful colour and every time Sherlock gasps John’s name it hurts, not unlike a wound.

‘It’s worth it,’ John says to himself every time. And though these words too, are not real – they are not thought by a real mind, or uttered by real lips – they too remain.


End file.
